Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
by MagnoliaHolmes
Summary: A piece of fanfiction from John's point of view after Sherlock's death, based on a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, and therefore is not mine. Post-Reichenbach. Mentions of major character death. Rated T because I feel like it.


_A/N: Hello again! Look at that, two posts in one day! Haha. Well, this fanfic is based on a poem, and this poem is incredible, no doubt about that. The name is __Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep__ by Mary Elizabeth Frye from all the way back in the 30's. It's also been put as song lyrics, just look it up on YouTube. It's beautiful. Anywho, I thought it described Sherlock and John fairly well, and it's not like I can help when inspiration hits!_

_Disclaimer: Once again, Sherlock and John aren't mine. The show on the telly belongs to the Man (a.k.a. the BBC) and the character themselves are the brilliant works of Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm only taking them out to play a little. I'll return them later. Pinky swear._

_I enjoyed writing this from John's point of view, and I hope you enjoy the story. Remember, reviews are love!_

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_Do not stand at my grave and weep._

That first time visiting Sherlock's grave after his death.. I felt like I had to be strong for Mrs. Hudson. She probably felt she needed to be strong for me. I think her and Lestrade were the only two people who really understood. You don't have to be romantically attached to another human being to feel some sort of unbreakable, invisible connection. I still felt that when I thought about Sherlock. I wonder if he'd want me to be upset. He'd probably utter something about how I'd have nothing to blog about now that he's gone. Or would he step outside his sociopathic box and actually say something heartfelt? I don't know. The more I think about it, the more I cry.

_I am not there, I do not sleep._

I still feel him. Sitting in my chair in our flat, walking around a crime scene with Lestrade, having tea with Mrs. Hudson, eating at Angelo's. It's almost like he's never left. I still talk to him. Tell him about my day, _like he's ever cared about that. _I yell at him for his incredibly annoying but surprisingly charming experiments on the kitchen counter. I still make two cups of tea. I still yell at him for not sleeping. That man.. I don't know how he wouldn't just pass out after a high-strung case like I would. Maybe his brain spoke too loud, and he was never really at peace. Or maybe, just maybe, sleeping was just too dull.

_I am the thousand winds that blow._

His coat is sitting in the flat. Before Sherlock was buried, they gave me his coat. They though I would want it. Truth be told, I really did. Sometimes I wear it. Never outside. People would talk, they did little else. But I think about how this coat must've guarded him from so many things, not just the brisk winter wind. I think it hid him from the rest of the world. In times of doubt, he could just flip up the collar and go about his business. No one really knows him like I do. Did. The wind wasn't the only thing he was hiding from. It was so much more. Metaphorically, I guess you could say Sherlock is _my _wind. Something that is constantly reminding me of it's presence. Something I can't always escape. It can be gentle, or rough, and almost invisible. But more often than not, it's there. Hiding.

_I am the diamond glints on snow._

It's Christmas time in London. Sherlock was never the sentimental type, but Christmas was actually sort of enjoyable with him. Lestrade would lie to Sherlock and say there weren't any cases to be solved. And although the brilliant detective saw straight through the lies, he didn't question it. Why not? I guess I'll never know. But Sherlock would try as hard as he could to get into the Christmas spirit. Actually, correction. _ I _would try as hard as I could to get him into the Christmas spirit. He never seemed to enjoy any of it. The only gift he ever sent was to Mycroft-a dieting magazine. But for some unknown reason, Sherlock enjoyed the snow. One year, when we indeed had a white Christmas, we both walked outside and stared at the falling snowflakes before going back inside. I liked moments like these. I liked them a lot.

_I am the sun on ripened grain._

One of the most non-interesting cases we ever had took place on a farm in the outskirts of London. Why someone had a farm in the outskirts of London was enough of a mystery to me. Anyway, the daughter of the farm owner was brutally murdered. No one knew who the killer was. Well, no one but Sherlock. He deduced it to be the father after about 3 hours, and the sick man was arrested. Afterwards, we were waiting for Lestrade to give us a ride back to civilization when out of no where, Sherlock said, "I'm not a monster, John. Cases like these, they really do affect me. Do you believe me?" "Of course I do," I replied. I'd never known Sherlock to say something like this. I can no longer see pictures of farms or grains without thinking about how wrong the world was about Sherlock Holmes.

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

Sherlock rather liked the rain. You learned to get used to it, but I always thought that he had some sort of weird infatuation with it. Maybe because it made for a more eery looking crime scene. Maybe he liked the way it felt when it splashed across his face. But I think the more plausible reason was that it seemed to wash everything away. Despite how excited he got over every murder and difficult case, no one can deal with so much death and not get a little pessimistic sometimes. Maybe the light rain in the autmn months helped to calm him down, and remind him that tomorrow was a brand new, clean day.

_When you awaken in the morning's hush._

Sherlock rarely slept. But when he did, it was an extraordinary sight. Someone of such a lithe stature, already looking like some sculpted angel. When awake, he was always thinking, deducing, figuring out. But when he slept, he looked so at peace with the world. Usually he would crash on the sofa because of his lack of sleep for a couple weeks, and I would carry his body to his bedroom. Since he never slept, he was a very _very _heavy sleeper when he did. Nothing could wake him. It was good like that, in a way. Maybe his body was telling him that he needed a break from the solving cases and saving the world one serial killer at a time. Even high-functioning sociopaths need naps.

_I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circling flight._

In a way, Sherlock resembled a raptor. A raptor is a bird of prey, a natural born predator. Their faces are often emotionless. They hunt out their victims and show no mercy. Sherlock was the same way. He was sneaky. No one could see him coming. But once he deemed you worthy and "not dull" you are out of luck. He would hunt you, he would find you. There was no question, and it wasn't something you could avoid. But the majestic nature of these birds are also to be examined. Sherlock was what stereotypes call attractive, but he was still breathtakingly beautiful. The kind of face you'd see in a famous painting. It had something so amazing about it. It's sharp cheekbones and his perfectly pale white skin. He was like the male version of Pygmalion's Galatea, sculpted for perfection and almost ethereal.

_I am the soft starlight at night._

It's been about a year and a half since the death of my best friend. I'm not seeing my therapist anymore, I figured it was only taking my time away from solving cases with Scotland Yard. I kind of picked up where Sherlock left off when he passed. Lestrade seems grateful, but everyone knows it isn't quite the same. But in a way, I'm glad it's not. Sherlock's gone. I don't want anything to be the same as it was before unless he was standing right next to me. Every night before I go to sleep, I look up at the beautiful London sky. Despite it being a big city and all, you can still see the stars. Sometimes the more spiritual side of me wonders if he's staring right back at me, smirking that smirk of his, telling me how ridiculous I am for talking to the stars. But what if I'm not being ridiculous? What if it's real?

_Do not stand at my grave and cry._

I still visit his grave. I just can't stay away. Who would? Having a friend-no, a best friend-like Sherlock changes your life. For someone who has spent his entire life distancing himself to accept you into his life is incredible to say the least. Sometimes when I'm grieving I think that maybe I'd have been better off if I had found a normal flatmate. How different would my life have been? The more I think about it, the more I realize I wouldn't of traded my life with Sherlock for anything. All those midnight chases on the streets, the adrenaline highs from catching hate criminals. Believe it or not, Sherlock saved me, in more ways than one. He didn't just cure my limp or save me from a life of boredom. He gave me back a life of adventure, excitement, and undoubtedly chaos But a man like me needs chaos. A man like me needs Sherlock. And just maybe, a man like Sherlock needed me.

_I am not there, I did not die._

I roll around a lot when I sleep. It's hard to drift off when all I see is his face. Suddenly, I heard a knock at the door. '_It must be Lestrade,'_ I think to myself. It wasn't odd for him to come around at all hours of night to seek my help on a case. He knows how much it means to me to continue Sherlock's work. I groggily make my way down to the door, but I wasn't prepared for the sight I see. A tall lanky man, with dark wavy locks and deadly blue-gray eyes. A warm smile appears on the man's face.

"Hello, John."


End file.
